EVER wondered how Sunday league players meticulously prepare their bodies and minds for the big game? Tom Logan, star striker of the Fox & Hounds, reveals all:
8.30am
Rudely awakened by the percussive thumping of a Championship-class hangover, I roll out of bed. Consider a fortifying morning lager, deciding against it on grounds of fitness, sportsmanship and there only being Fosters left. I’ll be over the limit regardless.
10am
Four Superkings, a strong Nescafe and a hearty shite later, I’m ready for my pre-match meal. Nutrition is key for elite footballers and it’s no different down here in the Warwickshire North-East Pub League. Fry-up it is. I leave out the black pudding because the stink of it’s making me heave.
10.45am
Kick-off’s at noon, so time to pack my kit. Eventually find it still packed and damp in the back of my Vectra. Bang the boots together to lose the worst of the dried mud. Throw in a packet of Superkings and a can of Monster and I’m ready for anything.
11.30am
Turn up at the pitch. It’s a grudge match against bitter rivals The King Edward, which I’m barred from. There’s been bad blood between us ever since our centre-half Dan nicked their dartboard. Pre-match warm-up is supposed to be two laps of the pitch, but I’m conserving my energy for where it matters by scrolling Instagram.
12pm
Kick-off and I haven’t had a touch of the ball before we’re 2-0 down. Since I didn’t touch it it’s not my f**king fault, I explain to our manager who’s calling me a useless twat from the sidelines. He’s very much of the Pep Guardiola school.
12.45pm
Half-time, and we’re 5-0 behind. I down a Fosters in one to give me an ‘edge’ in the second half. Feel pissed again, which will give me power.
1.20pm
The good news is I’ve scored a goal. Bad news is we’d changed ends. How was I to f**king know? If our keeper thinks he’s getting mates’ rates when I tile his bathroom on Tuesday, he can f**k right off.
1.45pm
Full-time. 7-1 loss. I think getting sent off for calling the ref a fat ginger twat hurt us. The showers are still broken and I’m not rinsing down in freezing cold water. I’m not Wim f**king Hof.
2.15pm
Back to team HQ for a pint. Barmaid won’t speak to me. Vaguely remember likening her to ‘Pamela Anderson, but, like, now’ last night.
5pm
Home. Chuck my filthy kit in the wash basket for my mum to deal with. What? Does Harry Kane do his own washing after a match? Same time next week, lads. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.
